


Blood Brothers

by srsly_yes



Series: Blood Brothers 'Verse [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Slash, Vampire!Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-09
Updated: 2008-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life's not easy when your best friend is a vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life Sucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** R for language, NC-17 in chapter 5.  
> Disclaimer: Not mine or ever will be. Just playing with my anatomically correct House and Wilson dolls.  
> **A/N:** This chapter works up a slow head of steam. Other chapters move faster. Tried to incorporate some S5 previews and embroidered upon them.   
> Much thanks to [](http://bookfan85.livejournal.com/profile)[**bookfan85**](http://bookfan85.livejournal.com/) for her sharp eyes and encouragement. Without her, I'm not sure this story would have been posted.

.

 

It was crystal clear to everyone at Princeton-Plainsboro that after Amber’s death the friendship was broken. From Cuddy to the cafeteria cashier - everyone noticed one of three things: House and Wilson no longer consulted, spoke or ate together.

Oddly, there were two holdouts that believed in the friendship - House and Wilson. But in their misaligned universe, one didn’t know how to repair it, and the other concluded he was a relationship biohazard and kept his distance.  
   
House was convinced that Wilson was broken, not the friendship. A few more weeks to heal and his friend would make the first move as he did in the past to mend rifts between them. There would be a cup of coffee waiting on his desk or a casual lunch invitation issued from the office doorway. All would be forgiven.  
   
He believed it was his job to demonstrate superhuman strength and wait patiently for a sign. He waited weeks, then waited some more, but nothing materialized.  
   
Anyone else would take the hint, but not the diagnostician. Maybe it was denial but something didn’t feel or look right to House.   
   
It was understood that Wilson was wrapped in grief. Insulating himself from everyone, he was the GQ reject for a t-shirt that read: “I took the walking tour of hell, and am too stubborn to ask for directions to the exit.” Clothes hung off him a little looser than six months before. Sitting in the cafeteria, staring into a cup of coffee, he held his emotions tightly checked; but, once in a while a haunted, lost expression would flit across pale features, only to disappear again like a hitchhiker seen by the side of the road and lost to the night after a car passed by.  
   
House would swear on a stack of medical books that there was a slender thread that held fast between them. Whenever he passed Wilson in the hall, the oncologist turned his face away making sure to avoid eye contact, but it was never fast enough. House detected a lingering look of need or hunger. It was enough for him not to give up hope of reconciliation.

Wilson worked from a totally different premise. His was a hidden agenda. He loved House. Always did. Always would, but Amber’s death gave him the excuse to act the inconsolable lover and isolate himself from House and the rest of the people who were concerned for him. He stayed away deliberately, not discouraging rumors that he blamed Amber’s death on House. It worked, and it protected him from prying eyes while he searched for a solution that would save him and those he cared about at PPTH.

Going into the third month, he ran out of time, and was left with no other alternative but to speak with Cuddy about tendering his resignation and giving two week notice. He asked her to keep everything confidential especially from the diagnostic department head. She suggested not to be hasty, to think it over. Changing his mind was not an option, but he went along with her, hoping to leave with a minimum of fanfare.

As secrets went, Wilson’s flew under the hospital radar for ten days before the whispering began, and the rumors reached House’s ears. House was blindsided by the news. He was annoyed to be outmaneuvered by Wilson. He wanted confirmation before he declared war. He barged into Wilson’s office and launched into a captivating and enticing explanation of the unusual symptoms of his latest patient, expecting the mysterious illness to seduce his friend as he had not.  
   
The oncologist was having none of it. He could barely pull his eyes away from the notepad he was diligently scrawling over in his illegible hand. Wasting no time, Wilson pulled the pin on a verbal grenade and lobbed it at his friend. It exploded. Wilson was composing his resignation on the innocent white paper before him. This was his last week.

His friend advised him that he was not only leaving Princeton-Plainsboro, but most likely leaving the state.

They fenced around the subject. Sharp foils with cool stinging points. Neither gained ground or advantage. House admitted to himself when he left the office that he lost the first round, but swore the duel wasn’t over. To believe that would mean Wilson was leaving his life forever, and that was unacceptable.

* * *

As Wilson’s last day approached, House attempted numerous maneuvers. Dropping off bags of chips, candy bars, even a steak smothered under a heap of greens. Wilson ignored the offerings while Taub and Kutner adjusted their belt buckles to accommodate their expanding waistlines.

House tried sarcasm to shake Wilson out of his misery. When the dark haired man diplomatically explained in front of House and his team that he needed a change of scenery, House bit out, “Buy a plant.”

He paged Wilson on consults for all his clinic patients. It seemed the Princeton-Plainsboro area was a booming cancer cluster.

The oncologist inspected the latest patient and questioned wearily, “Throat cancer again, House?”

“Absolutely, must have taken up smoking at an early age.”

“Yes, I’d say five years ago when he was in diapers. It’s a typical sore throat from a cold. Don’t call me again.” He was out the door leaving House to deal with a runny nosed kid and a hysterical mother.

The pages continued up until the last day, until Wilson sent down a member of his staff in his stead. House left the latest colicky baby with the oncologist clone, and bulldozed his way into a cleaned out office. Wilson was carrying out the last of his belongings and nodded goodbye as he went out the door.

* * *

That evening Wilson sat at his kitchen table in nothing more than an old khaki t-shirt and boxers. Even though his stomach grumbled from hunger, he half-heartedly swallowed bites of his dinner knowing that in the last few weeks he sadly miscalculated how much nourishment he could expect from his new diet. He’d lost, but was surprised to realize that he didn’t really care if there would be no chance for a new life. He stared at the plate wondering if it was worth the effort to finish or just go to bed when he heard loud banging at the door. A whining nasally voice announced a pizza delivery. He carefully placed the knife and fork on his plate while he snarled under his breath, “Damn it to hell.”

It was House. He should have known.

He prevented him from walking past the front door earlier in the day when House stood in the hall with a straggly sharp leafed plant looking suspiciously similar to marijuana.

“Have you lost your mind? What are you doing with this?” He snagged the plant, and quickly ditched it behind the door.

“Thought while you watched the scenery you could enjoy the ‘trip.’”

He worked to keep a serious expression on his face. House’s sense of humor was hard to resist. It was the last of a parade of hideous pots stuffed full of even sorrier vegetation. Each member of House’s team showed up with one uglier than the next including Foreman who handed over something that looked like a bikini waxed cactus with no needles. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away without saying a word.

Wilson accepted this final gift, but kept the mask tightly in place while he listened to House’s latest argument to stay. A wave of dizziness hit while holding the door open, but he steadied himself and was confident it was well hidden from House.

He ended the discussion by saying, “I have the right to walk away from you, House,” as he closed the door on his one-time best friend.  
   
From where he was sitting, his eyes roamed over the ‘scenery’ lined up on the kitchen counter. He didn’t have the strength to throw it all away. It could wither and die for all he cared. He would be gone before the first leaf dropped.

Repeated knocking drew him from his melancholy thoughts.

House crooned, “Jimmy honey? Daddy’s home, please open the door. Your snookums misses you.” He considered ignoring the mock mating call, then he remembered House made a duplicate key. There was no way to keep the man out of his apartment. He tiredly called back, “Shut up, House. I’m coming.”

Wilson covered his dinner plate with a napkin and hustled it into the fridge, hiding it toward the back of the shelf before shuffling to the front door. Damn, he was dizzy from hunger, but his one overriding desire was to be left to rest in peace. He laughed to himself. _If only he could._

He put his game face on and opened the door. House was standing with pizza and beer.

The demon within screamed, _You call this crap, food?!! Get it out of my sight! _

Instead he tamped down the beast, and slipped into his cloak of indifference coated with passive-aggressiveness, and turned his back on House standing there framed in the doorway. He walked to the bedroom, “I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed. Eat your meal, and lock the door on your way out.”

His noble exit was foiled when half way across the room his leg buckled and he stumbled. Quickly recovering, Wilson hoped House would attribute it to clumsiness. By the time he shut the door and his head hit the pillow he could care less.  
   
Of course, House couldn’t care more. He could have sworn Wilson was having more trouble than usual focusing when he visited this afternoon. A touch of vertigo for the Hitchcock fan? Having difficulty walking fifteen feet? He was troubled, itching to solve what was wrong. First, he would do a reconnaissance. He dropped the pizza and beer on the kitchen table and looked around the apartment.

There was little to see on the bookshelves. Sealed as well as open packing boxes were strewn over the floor. Wilson was moving.

He checked the bathroom and the medicine cabinet. Other than a fresh vial of anti-depressants the rest of the drugs were over-the-counter and nothing hinting of illness.

His next stop was the kitchen. Opening drawers and cabinet doors yielded nothing suspicious, neither did the pipes under the sink. His forehead wrinkled with concern. The clean up was recent due to the decision to move. Evidence could be hidden on a paper towel in some dumpster.

Before broaching the subject with his friend, he decided to head for the refrigerator and snitch some of Wilson’s icier, imported brew.  When he opened the door he was under whelmed by its contents. Most shelves and all the bins were empty. No beer was to be found. The sole content was on one shelf. Several wrapped packages stacked into heavy lipped dishes. He didn’t have to check the written scrawl on the wrappers to recognize meat from a butcher shop. Rosy pink stains mottled the paper, and lakes of blood formed in the bottom of the containers.

A covered dinner plate shoved behind the packages caught his attention. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he lifted the napkin and pulled it out for closer inspection. A  finger tested the meat for freshness. Nearly room temperature, it wasn’t in the fridge for long. _Wilson was eating this before he arrived. _

A mighty T-bone steak swam in its own red juice. A serrated knife and a fork with a hunk of meat hanging from its tines sat on the plate. Other chunks patiently stood in line like loose beads waiting to be threaded. The last time heat came close to touching the purple flesh, it belonged to a cow standing in a sunny meadow.

The meat was raw.

House wanted answers. Now. He dropped the plate on the counter and hop-stepped into Wilson’s bedroom unannounced. A closed bedroom door didn’t prevent him from entering any more than an office door did at the hospital.  
   
The atmosphere was thick and quiet as a funeral chapel. Dark, except for moonlight streaming through cracks between the shade and window. He could make out Wilson stretched out on his back, his hands straight at his sides in the middle of the bed. He looked like a corpse.

The chest appeared motionless - no sign of breathing. Thoughts turned to CPR while he grabbed the ice-cold hand checking the wrist for a pulse. Impatiently, he placed his fingers upon the neck. He breathed easier, he could make it out, but it was a quarter of the normal rate. Then, he noticed the faintest rise and fall from the torso. He sat down on the edge of the bed. His own heart skipped.

Black winged panic played hide and seek with his fears. He wanted to slap Wilson awake.  Be reassured that the lustrous brown eyes looked back at him. Imaginary sound effects of catgut shrieking across a violin from the Psycho shower scene ripped his concentration to threads.

He monitored the pulse again. The eyes moved under the lids in a normal sleep pattern but in slow motion. Wilson was in a heavy sleep, but not for a normal healthy man. He leaned over and checked the nightstand drawer for sleeping pills. None.

Adding and subtracting symbols to the equation, he came to one conclusion, and decided on a jury-rigged treatment to be administered as soon as Wilson awoke.  
   
He swallowed two pills before easing himself off the bed with his cane and limped back to the kitchen. He performed culinary surgery before returning to the bedroom with the pizza box. He stretched out on the floor with his back to the wall waiting for Wilson to wake. If he understood the patient’s condition, he would need to eat before having the strength to explain what was going on.

The body began stirring in less than an hour, but the nap did not appear to refresh his friend. Wilson looked more exhausted than ever.

Lids fluttered open and brown eyes hardened into bronze at the sight of House illumined in platinum moon glow.

Wilson looked like an invalid, but his voice cut like acid etching glass, “Why are you still here? Wasn’t there enough money in my wallet to reimburse you for your plants and food?”

“I’m waiting for you to sign off on your IOU.”

Wilson struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, “What are you talking about?”

House walked over to the lamp next to the bed and turned it on. He saw Wilson’s eyes wince as his hand shot up and shielded them from the light. Photosensitivity was added to the growing list of symptoms.

“You owe me an explanation, but first why not eat a slice of pizza. I ordered it with your favorite topping.” He lifted the cover and shoved the box under Wilson’s nose. The slices were dotted with chunks of raw steak.

Without thinking, Wilson’s hand plucked a cube nestling among the cold cheese and then dropped it. He turned his head away from the food, and sunk back upon the pillow, clasping his hands over his stomach to squelch the rumble of his stomach.

The silence held for five minutes as neither man made an effort to speak.

While each one bided his time, House glanced at his friend. He was shocked at how the handsome features deteriorated in an hour. Brown eyes glittered in a cadaver’s face.

His first diagnosis was a migraine, but that didn’t account for all the symptoms such as the bizarre food choice before him. Bloody raw meat was off the charts, and considering Wilson was so safety conscious that he could teach OSHA and the FDA a thing or two, this was a symptom that could not be discounted with a Safeway card.

House decided it was time to dig for answers. “Is raw meat your prescribed treatment for anemia? Where do you hide your Geritol? In the overhead light fixture?”

The questions were ignored, and all amiable pretence dropped, “Leave House. You’re not welcome.” But, his voice cracked just as the false words did.

House knew he was on the right trail. He rattled off his observations, “No night sweats. Slow pulse and respiration rate, low body temperature, pale, dizzy, muscle weakness, weight loss . . .”

Wilson was pulling himself into a sitting position. He looked shaky and his hands had a slight tremor. He was afraid the diagnostician was enjoying this game all too well, and wanted to put an immediate stop to it, “Not leukemia. I’m fine, and I should know. Have the credentials and diploma to prove it. Now go.”

House shoved the pizza toward him, and stood up. He needed to stretch the cramp out of his leg as he paced, “If it’s not leukemia, it’s some rare blood disease. Your behaving like a dying dog hiding under a bed." A sudden revelation struck him, "Was that what your resignation was about? Are you running away and refusing to get help because you think you're dying? Afraid my team will torture you before saving you? You’re a moron. You should be tested for mad cow disease, cause you’re not thinking straight either.

Eat to your vampire heart’s delight first, and then we’ll have a long chat about what’s wrong with you, and if you don’t give me a satisfactory explanation I’m checking you into the hosp…” His back was toward the sick man as an outlandish thought struck him. He spun around and turned his laser eyes back onto Wilson who was sitting with his elbows on his knees, eye palming his face with his hands. _No.Fucking.Way._

What he was thinking slipped out, “Wilson, tell me it’s not fucking possible that you’re...”

He caught what sounded like a death rattle, but louder. A serpent’s hiss licked at his ears as he heard his question mirrored back by the man he thought he knew, “What? A vampire?”

He met Wilson’s unblinking stare. For a moment, the irises reflected like glass marbles, like a dog’s frozen in the glare of a headlight. Then, his attention was caught by the upper lip, and was mesmerized by extremely long and pointed fangs silhouetted against an open mouth. Each word was enunciated and weighted with venom, “Well, take a long hard look, House. What do you think?"

Despite the skin crawling up his back, House only had one thought..._Cool._


	2. Life Sucks

Wilson was more shocked at his own behavior than House.

The light extinguished from his eyes, and there was a muffled apology as he dropped his face into his hands, “I’m sorry, House. You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Minutes passed. Wilson finally looked up. The fangs were gone, but his eyes couldn’t meet House’s. Instead, he sighed and turned his attention to the square flat box by his side. His hand snaked under the cover and snatched several pieces of the raw squishy globs, greedily stuffing it into his mouth.  
   
House was shocked as well. He was also amazed and interested. “What’s going on here?”

Wilson curled back on the bed. He was shivering, and exhibiting signs of shock. House could barely hear the softly spoken request, “I need richer blood and meat. There’s liver…”

House headed back to the kitchen where he dry swallowed more pills before finding the package in the refrigerator. It wasn’t difficult. ‘Lvr’ was scrawled in black marker on one of the wrappers. He wasn’t sure what Wilson wanted him to do with it. Unwrapping the slimy organ, he placed it in a plate and began cutting it up. The blood was plentiful and threatened to overflow the rim. He tipped the plate of syrupy vermillion into a glass. He saw there was over two inches of ooze. Eyeing the glass and plate, he decided it was too risky to balance the two with one hand while holding the cane in the other. He cursed under his breath. He hated when small things like that reminded him how dependent he was on a stick of wood.

He returned with the glass, and sat down next to his friend. Wilson was on his side, his back toward him in a tight fetal position. He shook a shoulder, “Hey, can you sit up?”

At first he didn’t see a reaction, then Wilson nodded and propped himself against the pillows. His hand was unsteady as he reached for the glass. House was afraid to let go, “Grip it with two hands unless you want to waste it.” The second hand came up, but it didn’t improve the trembling. A couple of drops ran down the outside of the tumbler. House tried to hide his alarm under a shell of irritation “Here, let go. You’re making a mess, but remember I helped you if you ever feel the urge to bare your fangs.”

He brought the glass to eager lips, and the dark fluid disappeared, along with most of the shaking. A shred of Wilson’s humor returned as he quietly mumbled, “Thanks, tasty but it’s missing that Geritol kick.”

“Next time I’ll add a shot of Maker’s Mark.”

House inspected his friend and was reassured for the moment. He left the room returning with the raw liver. A napkin and fork was thoughtfully provided if any part of civilized Wilson remained to appreciate it.

The plate was gratefully accepted. The brown eyes resembled those of a happy pup receiving a special treat for good behavior, but there was nothing good about this. The delight faded to embarrassment as his dark eyes slid away from the blue and peered toward the large room beyond, “Would you mind…?”

House took the hint. Stood up and closed the door behind him as he walked out. He chose to sit in the kitchen chair that faced the bedroom and waited.

While Wilson took his own sweet time, House’s mind was a thousand questions deep. He braided the cane around his fingers and twirled it. Was vampirism real or a disease? Something so rare that up until now no one discovered a logical explanation for it? Porphyria and rabies were thought to be medical explanations that supported the legend. Maybe it wasn’t a myth after all. Wilson accepted it as fact, and he was no fool. 

Fangs be damned, he wasn’t moving from this apartment until he got answers.

Time dragged. He pulled out his iPod then thought better of it. What if Wilson called out for help? He checked the time on his cell phone and left it on the table. It was getting later by the minute. If Wilson didn’t come out in five minutes, he was going back in. He wondered if he should bring more steak, or fashion a cross out of the chopsticks he found earlier in the cutlery drawer.

With one minute to spare the bedroom door groaned open and Wilson stepped out, behaving like a sleepwalker, and paying no attention to House as he walked by. He didn’t look much better than earlier, but at least he was walking. He dragged the plate and pizza over to the counter and ran water over the dish and utensils he dropped in the sink. Energy bled from him like a lacerated vein. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, his arms straddled the basin where he stood, head bowed, debating whether to clean the items or just leave them. Fatigue won out. He shut the tap and turned away.  
   
The oncologist began shuffling back to the bedroom, but as he passed the table, House kicked the leg of the empty kitchen chair across from him, skittering it in front of Wilson, effectively blocking his path, and arresting his attention. “Sit, Jimmy.”

Wilson sat. He brushed his hand over his forehead and ruffled his hair letting out a sigh, “What?”

House spun his strategy into motion. He picked up his phone, observing the man before him looking frail with dark circles under his eyes. He gauged there was little fight in him. “As a golden haired cocoa goddess once said, ‘We can either do this easy, or we can do this rough.' You need to be checked into the hospital. Do you want to come with me, or should I call an…”

He never saw the hand as it slammed down on his wrist with incredible speed and force. The phone flew and skipped across the floor.

“No, House. We are not playing this your way, I told you it’s not leukemia, it’s not any disease that has a cure, so don’t begin salivating over a new case. I just need to be left alone." Dark fathomless eyes bored into his, _“Forget. About. This.”_

House almost laughed, “Testing your vampire will over mine? Fogeddabouddit, Barnabas. That slightly cross-eyed stare doesn’t cut it. What’s next, the Jedi knight mind trick or the Vulcan neck-pinch?"

The remark broke the tension between the two of them, Wilson’s mouth twisted into a ghost of a grin, “Fine. Stay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you if you develop a taste for spiders and flies. I’m leaving now,” but all he did was raise both hands and snap his fingers.

“Great exit line, but sorry, Jimmy, you didn’t disappear into a trail of smoke.” They both laughed until Wilson’s disintegrated into a cough. He was still in a good mood as he brushed House’s concerned expression away with his hand.

“That’s two times you’ve called me Jimmy in two minutes." He tilted his head and squinted his eyes as he tried to understand, “Your trying to deflect your fear, or…?” 

“I care about you.” It was House’s turn to shrug. A motion he so little indulged, he could feel his joints rub. There. It was out. “Level with me.”

Wilson’s hand massaged the back of his neck. With one last-ditch effort, he returned the ball to House’s side of the net. "There's nothing you can do."

"Have you ever spoken to anybody about what's wrong with you before?"

"Only my sire, and there's nothing wrong with me, I'm just ... different."

House was doing a slow burn as he listened to Wilson's offhand responses, "Fuck, Wilson!. You look like a zombie, but you never sought another medical opinion other than your own. You're an idiot!"

Wilson blazed to life, and he deliberately ground out each word slowly, "An idiot maybe. A zombie, never. I'm a vampire!" His fist struck the table, and hairline cracks appeared on the surface radiating from under his hand.

House leveled his gaze, "Then prove it to me."

Each stared at the other across the table. Wilson waited a few beats before admitting defeat. He knew he fell into House's well-sprung trap. He dropped his eyes, “What do you want to know?”

Blue eyes bored into brown. House was holding Wilson to his word, "This is the emmes?”

“Yeah, emmes.”

House wanted to rub his hands with glee. He felt he was given a lifetime pass to a Wilson tell-me-the-truth buffet. Of course, if he didn’t watch his step, he might be Wilson’s main course.  
   
His attack was quick and to the point, “Why do you think you are a vampire? How long has this been going on? What are your symptoms?"

“Are we speed dating? Let’s take this one question at a time." Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and let go before speaking, “I have the run of the mill vampire indicators. You’ve seen some. Fangs, extra speed, strength, sensitivity to light,” he held up a hand, “Yeah I know you’re going to ask me about the sun. When you ridicule my coconut shampoo and body wash, it's really the SPF49 sunblock that you are smelling."

House leaned in, “What about becoming invisible? Fly? Can you turn into a bat? Do crosses and holy water burn your skin? Can you only be killed by driving a wooden stake through your heart?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down.” There was a flinty edge to the protest. “I don’t know the answers to most of your questions. This...this isn’t in any medical books, and I can’t locate a handbook or instruction manual on Amazon or eBay. No angry patients have tried to run me in with a wooden stake,” and looking pointedly at House, “I would appreciate if you wouldn’t experiment on me without asking first.” He continued, “When gas reaches $7.00 a gallon I’ll look seriously into flying."

Shrugging, “Don’t have many opportunities to be in the presence of crosses or holy water. Because, you know," his hands pointed at his chest, "I'm a Jew…and my best friend doesn’t believe in God,”

“But, you eat. I’ve seen you…” House halted as he thought about all the times Wilson good-naturedly forfeited his chips, sandwiches, and bagels. The list was endless, and this last week he didn’t touch any of the tasty bribes he’d brought to his office. The blue eyes lasered onto his friend. It was dawning on him that he knew very little about him.

Wilson found little difficulty in reading his mind, “Yes, House. You were the perfect friend. Don’t get me wrong, I was…att…attracted to you-your…personality. I enjoyed your company, but pursuing a friendship wouldn’t be worth exposing myself. You were a new kind of ‘friend with benefits.’ You ate the food I could barely stomach, showed no interest in religious beliefs, and you were so anti-social that I didn’t worry about other people prying into my life as long as I spent my free time with you.” He looked at the floor, “God knows, you were never interested in my life until Amber came along.”

The diagnostician’s mind accepted the explanation. So their friendship wasn’t as one-sided as most people thought. For all these years their twisted screwed up friendship was a parasite’s wet dream.

Whatever the friendship could be called it was in jeopardy now. Wilson was looking weaker. “So, you don’t need to eat?”

“No I don’t. If I’m to survive, I need to drink…blood.” There was another hollow reflective flash from the eyes.

“The raw calves liver doesn’t look like it’s working.”

Humiliation crossed the pale features, “You’re right, it’s bare sustenance. I need human blood.” Anger replaced the previous emotion, “But, you played your small part to remove my food supply, didn’t you?”

The question was a well-played emotional punch to his stomach as House supplied the answer, “Amber.”

"Yes, and now I’m totally cut off."

Instead of continuing down the highway, House veered off the next exit, “Is that all she was to you? Food?” He decided to sail right past the stop sign, and kept on going. His long fingers tapped out a rhythm on the table “What about all those wives of yours? Your own personal filling station?”

Wilson found the partially barren bookcases a fascinating study, “Yes.”

House was sitting on top of a gold mine. No pick or shovel was readily available, but that did little to dissuade. He would dig out the precious ore with his bare hands if he must. He returned to one of his original questions, “How long has this been going on?”

Wilson heard the interest in House’s voice, he knew he was as good as undead. He wasn’t going to get any rest until he spilled all. “Since med school. Before I married Jill I met a very charismatic hematology instructor who asked me to TA. I thought it would look good on my upcoming intern applications, and learn more about her specialty. Appears I got more than I bargained for.

"She just broke up with her girlfriend, and needed some liquid refreshment. Dumped me soon after, leaving me with a craving for red meat, and without a dental plan to accommodate my new overbite.” He was quiet, making a decision about what to say next, “You once asked me why I went into oncology…?”

House nodded, “The favorite dead uncle was bullshit?”

“Yeah. I thought I’d have a chance to be on the cutting edge of treatments and drugs that would cure or at least lessen the symptoms. At first I thought exactly like you that it was a disease similar to leukemia. It was years before I accepted the fact that the only diagnosis for it was vampirism.”

House couldn’t pick up the nuggets fast enough. Dead uncles, a harem food supply, and gay girlfriends. He wanted more information on the last bit, but would file it away for another time. “So, the self-respecting boy wonder didn’t become a playboy until…?”

“After my sire. Then I…I entered into a vigorous and varied love life. I found out that the puncture wound as well as the memory were quickly forgotten by the…recipient.” Wilson waved a hand to halt House’s next question, “And before you ask, I never took advantage of you during our pizza and beer nights. If you remember, there was always an ample supply of girlfriends, even when I was married.”

“Except now.”

“Yes. Except now. I’ve never had this happen before. How does it look, the grieving boyfriend dating so soon after his one true love died? I was screwed. I thought animal blood would work. Apparently not very well.”

“You can’t afford to be virtuous, Ji…Wilson. You look like the ‘Prince of Crap,’ not the ‘Prince of Darkness.’”

Wilson’s arms wrapped around his chest, his lips drew into thin stubborn lines. “You’re right. I don’t have the energy to dig myself out of this mess. Usually raw liver kick starts me, but it’s not working. I thought I’d get out of New Jersey. Maybe go to California. Make a new life where no one knew me and start fresh, but after tonight," he shook his head, "I’ve waited too long.”

“If all you need is human blood…”

“Maybe it’s even too late for that. I don’t know.”

House didn’t want to think about the possibility, nevertheless he said what was on his mind, “I thought vampires couldn’t die.”

“Unfortunately, I learned more about hematology than vampirism from my sire, but she explained a few things. She said there were two forms of vampire death. Dusting and Morpheus, a deep comatose state that simulates death. The body never deteriorates.” Wilson blanched, “There’s a slim chance that a vamp can be revived, but it is an undesirable choice. If it came down to regaining consciousness or dusting," Wilson deliberately paused, underscoring what he was about to say, "dusting is preferable.”

House shifted in his chair and arched an eyebrow, “Dusting? You mean disintegrating into dust? Wouldn’t the possibility of resuscitation be better?”

Unshed tears brightened Wilson’s eyes. He choked out, “If the vampire could be reanimated it returns without humanity - a monster, one of the living dead.”

With Wilson’s last admission, House was committed to saving him by any means.

“Before you become preserved broccoli, why don't you take some of mine?"

His offer was met with a sneer, "Yours? You mean your Vicodin enriched blood? H-h-how many p-p-pills did you take t-today? Medication diminishes the effects. It won't be any b-better than the liver - worse most likely."

House was doubtful he was getting the complete truth. Wilson was stuttering too much. He wondered why, but didn't pursue it. He continued, "Why don’t I snatch a bag of blood from the hospital, and see if it makes you feel better?”

House didn’t think it was possible to see Wilson turn a whiter shade of pale. “There’s a blood shortage right now, I’m not going to be responsible for a patient dying because there wasn’t enough blood to go around. I am a doctor.” In a lower tone he muttered, “Besides, there are other interactions connected to using donated blood.”

“Yeah, and I sooner not lock you away in my refrigerator’s vegetable drawer. Leaves less room for beer.” House scratched at the bristles on his face. He could hear the answer before he let slip his next suggestion, but he had to give it a shot, “How about if I find someone off the street and offer money for their blood? It’s no different than selling it to a blood bank.”

He expected Wilson to immediately rebuff the idea, but was stunned when he saw fangs spring out and Wilson hissed, “Excellent, House. Why not take advantage of the homeless and deprive the hospital of blood at the same time? Do I have to tell you about my brother once again?”

The fangs disappeared, but the outburst left a noticeable toll on his friend. House saw the man imploding before his eyes, but the voice stayed sharp as a freshly honed knife, “Enough. I’m wasting my eternity on your infernal questions.”

Wilson tried pushing away from the table, but faltered and grabbed onto it to steady himself. Just as he gave in to the demands of his exhausted body, he worked hard to hold onto his pride with a shred of humor, “Since when did my bedroom move to Trenton?” Slowly crumbling to the ground, Wilson was losing his battle with gravity.

House moved fast and caught his friend under the arms. The cane served to support both of them as they moved to the bedroom. With every step House bore more of his friend’s weight and whispered secrets. House didn’t want to hear about final instructions and a will, but Wilson pressed on. He heard something about a silver coin…fire…lead-lined…deep, and he thought he heard ‘love’ before Wilson collapsed onto the bed with a sudden shuddered intake of breath. This wasn’t amusing anymore. It was deadly serious. The burning rage on House’s face could turn Medusa to molten lava.  
   
House saw too many patients die not to recognize similar signs. It didn’t matter what Wilson’s sire called it. Death was sitting at the foot of the bed quietly knitting a shroud. Wilson wanted to play the ‘Dark Knight,’ but House found nothing honorable in allowing his ethical best friend to die.

He hobbled into action. Working his way back to the kitchen he found a glass, and rummaged for a sharp kitchen knife. Hurrying to the bathroom, he reassured himself that the medicine cabinet was fully stocked with alcohol, bandages, and antiseptic. His leg was beginning to throb, so the well-placed cuts in his arm added the benefit of a gating mechanism.

He saw the fluid slowly rise in the glass. He closed his eyes in frustration, and gritted his teeth, "Come on, come on."

Vicodin or not, he hoped his blood would buy Wilson more time. There was nothing to lose. He had no idea how much would be needed to make a difference, but when the dark red fluid was well over an inch, he decided to bandage his arm and bring what he collected into the bedroom. If it wasn’t enough, he could draw more.

Wilson’s eyes were closed, and mouth slack. House fought back panic as he felt under the jaw for a pulse. Slower. Weaker.

Wasting no time he slapped Wilson on both sides of the face. Once. Twice, and the eyes flew open. “Here, drink. I brought you more blood, and made it just the way you like it - room temperature.” He sank down next to his stubborn patient, and propped him up as he brought the water glass to his mouth, tipping so the red fluid wet his lips. At the first drop, Wilson grasped the glass on his own, and downed the contents.

The change was remarkable. House stood up as he checked the vitals. The body no longer looked fit for a slab. Pulse and breathing were close to normal. Even the pallor was replaced with a warmer, rosier color.

House stepped back and congratulated himself on the recovery. A little blood now and again wasn’t too big a sacrifice to make for a friend.

His best friend was a vampire. So what?

Wilson eyes were heavily lidded. He was still holding the glass, and lifted it to his lips one more time, running his tongue around the edge, collecting and savoring the last precious drops. His eyebrows knitted together, as he sniffed the glass, and then his eyes snapped open searching and holding House with twin dark tractor beams. The eyes no longer skewed, not by a hair’s breath. House felt trapped in a vise and found it hard to breathe. He never thought of Wilson as a threat. Not up until now. With one fluid movement Wilson was standing face-to-face. His upper arms were held in an iron grip. The cane dropped to the floor.  
   
The barely audible whisper from minutes before was replaced with bellowing fury. Wilson’s voice struck like a lightening bolt to the heart. “That was your blood, wasn’t it!? A feral whine leapt from a hidden crypt, “You fucking asshole! All I ever wanted to do was shield you from this. You think you saved me, but you hurt both of us instead.” He shook House nearly off his feet.

Then he let go, and backed away. Grief flickered as the voice softened. He covered his face with his hands, the fingers curling stiffly like tarantulas covering his eyes, “House, what the hell have you done? I can't protect you now.”

House said nothing. He crossed his arms and rubbed at his bruises.

As the hands moved away, he saw a steel mask. Arms dropped to the vampire’s side. Eyes flashed brilliant silver. The voice became more harsh and guttural. Menace poured from the double barbed mouth and remained palpable as the thing’s words rattled through the charged atmosphere…

_“I said I had the right to walk away from you, but now I don’t, and neither do you. _

_"We’re connected, you and I. I’ll know where you are every minute of every day, and hunt you down for pleasure_…_or call you to me, and you’ll be thrilled to run to my side__…__thrilled to death."_

The contorted face came closer, filling his field of vision. So close that he could smell the metallic odor of his own blood on the breath of the Nosferatu.

_"That glass of blood was your death warrant.”_

.  
.

 

* * *

**Add'l A/N:**  
Emmes or emes. Pronounced: _m’-iss_. Yiddish for truth.

Homage to:  
“A Thousand Kisses Deep” by Leonard Cohen  
"Proud Mary" by Tina and Ike Turner  
“A Whiter Shade of Pale” by Procol Harum  
“My Best Friend Is a Vampire.” RSL’s 1988 movie.  
Barnabas Colllins, vampire on "Dark Shadows"

 


	3. You're a Sucker

_"That glass of blood was your death warrant.”_

The words echoed in House’s ears. Fear unleashed sweat that trickled down the back of his neck like an army of liquid ants. He also learned how it felt to have his blood run cold.  
   
But, it didn’t distract from his overwhelming need to know. He bit back his tongue not once but twenty times as he listened to Wilson's chilling edict.

There was only one question on his mind, and he blurted it out, “Do you want me to pick up your laundry from the cleaners? Yes or no?”

Wilson just stood there with his mouth open - fangs at the ready, but the silver was fading from the eyes. He blinked once, twice, and said, “Shkooze me?”

Hearing “Excuse me” or rather “Shkooze me” from a vampire dampened the whole horror effect. House started returning to earth from the rarified air of the supernatural. He was relieved to see Wilson was also coming down quickly from the sizzling currents that thickened the air around them moments ago. He’d file it away for future reference if ever he met a creature of the night in a back alley; but, not a fool, he doubted that it would ever work with anyone except Wilson.

He inspected the creature/man/friend before him. The fangs protruded, but the veil of silver was extinguished from the eyes. They were back to normal except for the heavy glassy cast, and the lazy eye ran a far second to the well-behaved one, “Bat got your tongue, Bela? You really should try Poligrip.”

Wilson swiped at his mouth, checking the progress on his retracting canines, “Houshe,” he swallowed hard, trying to enunciate, “Houssse. This is no laughing matter. Itsh-it’ss far more sseriousss than you can imagine.”

House sat down on the bed and looked up, “Damned right it is. From your outburst I have to assume I’m the minion to a man suffering from rampaging hormones. Is it PMS or menopause? You’re nearly 40, so it’s probably 'The Change.’ It’s a real bitch, huh Jimmy?”

Wilson sat down beside him, eye palming his face into his hands, “Yeah, and it’s not any more enjoyable with a Vicodin chaser. When and how many pills did you take today?”

“A total of eight since this morning. In vampire years I suppose that’s like…”

“Food poisoning. Yeah, thanks.” Wilson removed his hands and tried to give his head a shake to throw off the drugs. “Apparently, more lethal than garlic.”

“Not that it will do me good now? Prevent you from having your way with me?”

“No. It wouldn’t.” Wilson shook his head in regret and sighed, “You damned idiot.”

“My mother taught me to say ‘thank you’ when you pass the salt and pepper, or save someone’s life.”

“Well, thank you, but wait…Are you admitting you were taught manners? Be careful Cuddy doesn’t find out, or she’ll expect you to attend fundraisers.”

“Now you’re really scaring me,” not as comfortable with the man next to him as he used to be, he reached for a double helping of bravado, “Cheer up. You didn’t bite me, and you’re not a head of cabbage chilling in my vegetable drawer. So you got the added bonus of a buzz along with your strength back. Why so glum about drinking my blood?”

Wilson turned to face him while trying to focus his eyes, “You brought me back so you could kill me with all your questions, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t the one going on about a connection, and death warrants.” House mimicked Bugs Bunny, “Eh, what’s up, doc?”

Wilson rolled his eyes, “Get it through your funky head that this isn’t a joke.

“Mind if I change into something more comfortable?” Wilson went over to the closet, turning his back toward him as he slipped on a black button-down shirt and jeans. House shook his head,_ only Wilson would be more comfortable fully dressed than in underwear_, but his musings vaporized as Wilson returned.

The face and body were leaner, more youthful. The cheekbones were sharply sculpted cliffs, and the dusting of silver at the temples disappeared under dark, thick, silken locks. The clothes hung loosely as if he instantly dropped 20 pounds, and he looked…impossibly young. House might have passed him on the street without recognizing him if it wasn’t for the bushy eyebrows, chocolately eyes, and the pretty lips that were stamped ‘Wilson’ all over them. He looked like Claudio in "Much Ado About Nothing."

The cadence in the voice was the same, “Do you mind if I conserve energy? I want to hold off as long as possible before needing more blood. This is how I looked after I was turned, but if you are more comfortable with how you normally see me I can create the illusion of aging.”

“Al Gore will write you a commendation.” House found nothing objectionable about the transformation. Young Wilson was easy on the eyes, and would only admit to himself that he missed the “Boy Wonder” of late.

Youthful or not, gravitas shone from the eyes, “You really should’ve let me go. You don’t know the kind of trouble you're in.”

“Mind if I have a beer while you tell me?”

Wilson stood with his hands in his pockets, and nodded his agreement, swaying slightly from the medication, “Go right ahead, but you're buying.”

* * *

They were back at the kitchen table. House sucking down the brew he brought over, and Wilson quietly sitting in the opposite chair, forsaking any interest in the golden liquid, blinking hard to check the diminishing effects of the medication in his system.

Both were quiet. Watching each other; considering their next move. By the time House twisted off the second cap, Wilson’s reflexes and thought processes were close to optimal bandwidth.

“Give it to me straight, doctor. Earn that ten dollars I’ll owe you.”

Wilson tried to keep his voice objective, but the eyes betrayed embarrassment, “You have to understand, blood is everything to m-‘my kind.’ We are predators first, second and third. Blood is food, sex, procreation…life. The drive for blood is overpowering, and after the first taste,” Wilson lowered to an almost inaudible whisper, “Especially from a compatible sex partner the need to consume becomes overwhelming, and there are only two choices: Caressing or embracing the prey.”

“Caressing?”

“Drinking enough to survive without draining and killing the victim.” Wilson scrubbed at his forehead. “Obviously, I practiced this with my wives, and girlfriends, and they never had a clue. Just lovemaking that began with a kiss on the neck.”

“Convenient.”

“Yeah, convenient.” Wilson did not look happy.

“And, an embrace?”

“The embrace. It’s the only way to reproduce. Turns the victim into a creature like me.” Wilson saw House’s eyes darken to a vivid blue as he speculated on the possibility. Waving his arm, he tried to erase any interest from his friend’s mind. “Forget I mentioned it. It’s ugly. Horrific. It takes a physical and emotional toll, and the outcome can tear a relationship apart.”

“Have you embraced anyone?”

Getting up from the chair, Wilson began to pace, “Actually, yes. I didn’t realize what I was doing at the time until it was too late. I’ve avoided the situation ever since.”

“…And, you avoid the situation by using fang prophylactics?”

Wilson forced himself to stop in mid-pace, and shoved his hands into his pockets. His face turned three shades of red before he admitted, “By having relationships with women and drinking their blood.” With his head bowed, he waited for the inevitable question.

House’s eyes focused on a distant point as he processed the information. His next remark wasn’t a question. It was a statement. “You’re gay, and I’m in deep shit.”

Silver jets of light jumped out of Wilson’s eyes. A bulge in his jeans began to grow despite the fisted hands pushing out from the fabric of his pockets. He made a wide berth away from House, and skulked into the chair near the empty bookcase, burying his head in his hands. His body language read ‘horny but miserable.’

A low moan prefaced the speech, “With women I can control my cravings and passions. Besides, I really don’t want to sire a harem, but men…I can’t control my desires. I’ll suck until there isn’t a drop left, and unless I embrace them and let them drink from me, they’re dead.”

As awful as the disclosure was, House offered his brand of consolation, “But, you’re a lover, not a killer.”

A wretched whisper traveled from the corner of the room, “One and the same.”

“You said, you embraced someone. Did you also kill?” House didn’t want to know, but the question wrenched out of him.

“Thank God, no, but I nearly killed two men until I realized it was easier to feed off women. The first time I was lucky, and by accident broke away. The second time I had no willpower. The only choice was to embrace.”

House’s curiosity was in overdrive and wasn’t going to slow down. He dragged his chair over to where Wilson sat, and stared at him until he looked up. “Don’t stop there. How did it go down? _Did_ you go down?” His interest ignited. He wanted to know, needed know, was _hot_ to know.   
   
Wilson unfolded his story and spread it out like a road map for House to follow, “My sire’s name is Zehava. After she turned me she fed me until I grew stronger and could fend for myself, but she wasn’t generous with information. Whatever she told me was on a need-to-know basis.

“The first time, I’d been on my own for a week, and was naive, not understanding the scope of my hunger. After class, I worked part-time as an EMT, earning money and pumping up my intern applications at the same time. I worked part-time up until the…incident.”

“Another tech and I were in the back of the ambulance while the driver cruised our area waiting for calls. We were sitting kind of close, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, kidding, maybe…flirting, and then we went over a speed bump too fast, and were pushed together. Our arms went out to steady each other, and…and I lost control. The warm skin of his neck was beneath my lips. I could see his pulse, watched it throb, and heard the rush of blood…” Wilson paused, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, “Without thinking, I began biting down on his neck. I swear House, my behavior was reflexive, and there I was, enjoying the hottest sex in my life. Neither of us could break away. I was in…oblivion.”

House wanted to rewind the last part and check for bonus features, “A vampire’s bite is orgasmic?”

Wilson was reliving his humiliation and didn’t catch the subtext of the query. He hurriedly answered, “Yes. Remember the old E ticket rides at Disneyland? This ride would take the whole book. Several in fact. It was all the rides in the park, even those that were gone…from the old Rocket to the Moon to California Screamin’ with Pirates of…” Wilson caught himself…and the speculative sparkle warming the blue eyes across from him. He raised his hand, “Oh, no, don’t even think about it. I keep telling you that the price of admission is far higher than the gate fee at the Magic Kingdom.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he recalled where he left off, “We were holding on to each other, unconscious of anything around us when the siren screamed overhead and the vehicle sped off to an apartment building fire with reported injuries, but neither of us stopped – we couldn’t. Fire trucks followed along the same route with their horns blasting along side us. It was enough to wake the dead, but I was barely aware of what was going around me.” Wilson sat forward in his chair, “House, I still couldn’t break the connection. We stopped at the curbside, and I could smell smoke entering the cab through the ventilation system, heard the guys up front, the fireman, and finally I cooled enough to push away. I don’t know what stopped me. A few more minutes, and he would be drained. My EMT partner, Bill, was dazed but able to walk. I was terrified he would tell somebody that I was a vampire, but all he remembered was having crazy passionate sex.

“I quit my job after that. Avoided Bill the best I could, but he kept showing up with…gifts. I was being…stalked. He was half out of his mind because I refused to continue what we started. Not that it was any easier on me.” Wilson’s eyes were haunted, “I understand more about addiction than you think.

“I returned to my sire, asking her what to do. She couldn’t understand why it mattered to me. She laughed and said I should embrace him. Told me it was not her affair, and that I was on my own. I begged and pleaded with her. Threatened to dust myself if that was the only way to end the connection. When she saw I was serious, she offered to grant me one last favor, and took Bill under her guardianship, but she warned me never to bother her again.”

House was fascinated, “So, now that you drank my blood, I’m under your spell and not only will be picking up your laundry, but will be paying for your lunch?” He inwardly sneered. Like that would be the day.  
   
“Yes. Why should I dwell on the bad news, when there’s so much good to celebrate?” Wilson was far from breaking open a bottle of champagne, “You can buy your own food from now on, but you’ll be paying for mine in blood. I suppose you’ll want to wash and wax my car too?”

The words flew out of House’s mouth without thinking, “Only the best Carnauba for my Master.”

Neither man laughed. House could almost smell Wilson’s melancholy in the back of his throat.

He shook off the impulse to comfort his doleful companion. He was hunting for knowledge. Now that he knew about caressing, he wanted to hear about the embrace. “What happened the second time?”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, “The second time was a few weeks before graduation, and I was dating my first future ex, Jenn.”  Lips pressed together in chagrin,  “I thought everything was going well. I cared for her. I-I was happy. She was a willing donor, and I thought as long as I wasn’t hungry, I could control myself. And, I could, but only up to a point.

“We weren’t living together. I was still sharing an apartment with a guy named Joel. There was absolutely no chemistry between us. I didn’t want to ruin what Jenn and I established, and really, Joel was a dick. He was as straight as a carpenter’s level, and twice as boring. And, to prove lightening can strike twice his fiancée was his female clone.

“One day, Joel was rushing to see Sarah and began shaving at the sink while I was in the shower.” Wilson grimaced with annoyance, “The cheap bastard nicked himself a couple of times with an old razor, and as I stepped out of the tub, a couple of drops splashed on my face. I instinctively licked, and that’s all it took. Two specks of blood and we were connected. I could feel it immediately and knew I needed to get out of the apartment. Somehow I resisted the impulse to stay, and broke records throwing on my clothes. Jenn took me in, and I fought the urge to go back, but Joel kept calling. Asking why I left in such a hurry, wanting to know when I would return because he needed to split the rent and expenses. Finally, he said if I was moving out for good, I should at least pick up my things. Thinking I’d curbed my own passion by caressing Jenn, and since I didn't bite Joel, the connection only flowed from me to him, I returned…and again…”

“Dun, dun dunn.” House inserted the sound affects.

“Yeah. This time no stopping. I had to turn him, or kill him.”

“Bet your private bachelor party went over big with boring dick's chick.”

“Right. I ruined both their lives.”

“She married him?”

“Yes, but not for long. Since he was straight, he embraced her, and soon after they couldn’t stand each other. The marriage was so short, they were granted an annulment citing false representation.” Wilson huffed.

“Now, there were four vampires living within blocks of each other. Joel and I wanted to go for each other’s throats if we so much as got a whiff of each other, and to some extent it was the same with Zehava. She wanted no part of me, but as my sire I cared for her. Surprisingly, the fiancée and I got along better after she was turned than before.

“For a while it was hell. We were all competitors sharing the same territory for the same food. Luckily I was moving out of town to start my internship.” He shrugged,  “Again, all I know is that embracing is a crapshoot. Sometimes, you can live with them, but more often than not you can’t.”

House’s chin was resting on the handle of his cane, drinking it all in, “What happened to Zehava?”

"The last I heard she moved to Oregon. Said she was allergic to sun block…and to me.”

“Hard to be rejected by your sire,” House commiserated under his breath. “That’s what you’re afraid would happen to us if we embrace…our friendship would break?”

There was a mournful nod, “Yes. I don’t want to find out, and take that chance.”

Wilson made a good case. House didn’t want to find out either.

“How come you were willing to risk living with me after Julie?”

“You’re a night owl, I’m an early bird. Two compatible but different species.”

House agreed. Neither one of them was the touchy-feely type, or maybe it was only he who avoided touching. Wilson abstained for other reasons - for life and death reasons.

“You believe the connection is strongest with men, because of your orientation. So, your interest in women isn’t about fixing them. It’s about getting what you need without killing anyone." House’s brow furrowed, “No connection at all?"

Old eyes stared back from a boyish face. “There’s a slim hold, but I’m definitely in control while I play the considerate lover.”  His attention was drawn to the arm of the chair as his fingers skated the leather in a figure eight. “Without passion I get bored, and the connection lessens. Then, they move on.”  
   
“But you and Amber…?”

“Still in the honeymoon stage, and after all, House,” the eyes flashed, “She was a proxy of you.” The voice betrayed bitterness, “It was a perfect solution. I thought our relationship had a chance to last.”

House wrestled with his personal green-eyed monster, “And, the sex…?”

“The best by far with a woman, and yet without the overpowering connection.”

It wasn’t lost on House that Wilson admitted indirectly his interest in him, “I’m flattered," House leaned forward in his chair. Their foreheads were almost touching, “So, that only leaves the two of us with…the caress? Is that really the only choice? So far, I’m resisting you.” As he said it, he realized his inner leg was touching Wilson’s outer, his hand was rubbing the top of his friend's thigh, and he was gazing at the most fuckilicious mouth ever. He felt Wilson place his hand over his, interlacing the fingers, and then…let go and jumped out of the chair, striding over to the bookcase.

A furious campaign was initiated to pack stray books into boxes. House watched as one colorful blur after another flew through the air at the speed of light and landed in the lined up cartons. The dark eyed man didn’t look away from his task, “Weren’t you listening? It’s not likely you will survive the first time. You better go. I’ll leave New Jersey tonight. I-I’ll get in touch with Zehava and learn how we can beat this connection. It’s no concern of yours, House. You deserve to have your life back.”

Wilson made it sound too easy. The diagnostician’s invisible crap detector turned on. “Thought you weren’t in contact with your man-eating parent?”

The book boxes filled to overflowing, and still more were heaped onto the pile. Derisive laughter accompanied the question, “You’re a sucker, House. Is it my clueless Jimmy Stewart act, or the tragic misunderstood vampire that’s making you such easy prey?" With hands on hips Wilson turned to face him, “You still haven’t the faintest idea who I am.”

Wilson was turning…again. He aged, aged beyond human life expectancy and beyond. A bloated hunchbacked mummy stood before him. Skin pasty, wrinkled and slack with sagging jowls. Knobby arthritic fingers ended in blackened talons. Jaundiced eyes filled with faded copper irises that surrounded paper-thin slits of red-hot fire. A few airy wisps of hair floated like cobwebs above the mottled scalp. Soulless evil grinned from liver-colored lips as a pointed tongue ran over a mouthful of tiny razor sharp, spiked teeth. The trademark canines of disproportionate length unmistakably proclaimed the fiend to be a vampire.

House was repulsed and scared to the core. Without the fangs, it was the same monster that lived under his bed when he was a kid.

Crab-walking over to House the creature poked a cracked dirty nail into House’s chest, rubbing the nipple under the shirt with a callused bony thumb. House flinched and involuntarily stepped backward. He was close enough to smell the stench of death. Gone was the well-modulated voice, replaced by a reedy dry rasp, “Like what you see? I’m quite the pretty picture. This is what my sire turned me into. She’ll come to me when I look like this. It entertains her to laugh at the horror she created.

“Don’t know what came over me, thinking your blood would connect us. The Vicodin gave me more of a thrill than you.” The mouth twisted into a sneer and spat, “A drug addicted cripple. I can do much better. I’ll ask Chase to come over and help with the packing. I'll stare at him with my puppy-dog eyes, and he’ll drop Cameron as if she were a broken Barbie doll.” He shuffled over to the kitchen and picked up his cell phone. “Got him on speed dial. Don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.”

The cruel words lashed at House, but he was more overwhelmed by a furnace of fear roarimg within him. His head felt feverish from the rush of blood pounding through his body. Beads of sweat poured down his face. Alarm and dread collided within him as the front door and safety beckoned. 

Self-preservation cleared the panic from his brain. Wilson was insane, better beat a retreat and warn Chase to stay clear.

The ancient one nodded, “That’s right, get out of here, and keep your mouth shut before I decide to drink you dry and snap your bones like twigs.” The vampire’s nails stroked his chin, “You don’t deserve my clemency. It would be much better sport to bury your body in a shallow grave in the woods, and watch wild predators scatter your remains.” He finished with a wheeze that served as a laugh. “Hmmm…One of my better ideas…” He changed direction and moved like a spider toward House’s direction…

He heard the bang of the door smashing shut on epic evil, and was astonished to find he was outside of the apartment. He couldn’t remember ever moving so fast. He couldn’t remember moving at all.

The terror faded quickly now that he wasn’t facing his private nightmare. He headed toward the elevator, but at a slower pace. All the adrenaline pumping through his body was making his arms and legs shake and his cane couldn’t steady him until his hands stopped as well. He bent over and concentrated on inhaling large breaths of fresh air before he straightened out and felt strong enough to head down the hallway.

Calmer, he became aware that the connection was with him. Every step was an effort. Finally, he was at the metal clamshell doors, and pushed the down button, closing his eyes as he waited.

He could see the shrunken monster again. Not only did it remind him of his childhood nightmares, it was an exact replica. Gray fluttering moths beat in his stomach. It was too much of a coincidence. Sly-eyed suspicion crept up to the edge of mind. Perhaps, there was more to the connection than he knew. What if the gruesome troll was a hallucination projected by Wilson? Was he capable of reading his mind and dredging up childhood fears to trick him into leaving? Several times in the course of the evening, his friend second guessed what he was going to say.

On the other hand, the connection could be manipulating his perception. Seducing him to return to the predator’s den.

As the elevator doors rolled open, fresh foreboding flooded his senses. He saw Wilson disintegrating into crackling sparks as flames roared about him. Another vivid vision, and a hurtling locomotive’s wheels ripped a dark haired head from a slender body with the ease of a knife slicing through warm butter. There was one more apparition, and Wilson shattered into dust as a wooden stake impaled his heart. The last image glowed and sharpened. It was hi def compared to the others.

Shunning the elevator he flew back along the hall, testing the door. It held fast. He reached for his keys, looking for the duplicate, but his trembling fingers wouldn’t cooperate. _God, no! This can’t be happening! _When he found the right one, his hands shook like a tree branch buffered in a storm and the keys chattered to the floor. _Jesus! don’t let me be too late!_ He swept them up, and started again. Precious seconds escaped before the brass key plunged into the steel tumblers and released the lock.

He threw open the door. It ricocheted against the wall as he heard a sharp crack and the splintering of wood. _Nooooooo!_ Icy fingers squeezed his heart. He saw his handsome friend with a discarded and fractured broom close to his feet. The shirt was open, his chest exposed. A portion of the broken handle was converted into a jagged stake that was grasped in both hands and raised high above his head pointing directly at the most foolish heart he knew. The long sharp tip was poised to plunge as House limped forward, but there wasn't enough time to get close enough to wrestle it away, so he used the only weapon available and furiously thundered:

_“STOP!!! YOU SELF-SACRIFICING SON-OF-A-BITCH!! Who gave you the right to dust yourself?! You think you're gonna leave me here to sweep up what's left of you with a broken broom? We're connected. YOU OWE ME!!!_

The lethal point wavered in the air as the diatribe broke over Wilson’s head, but white-knuckles continued to clench the wood spike. He turned his head and frowned at the man with the cane, rooting him to the spot, “You’re right, House. I do owe you. I owe you your freedom and life, and the only way I can do that is if I take mine.”

The dagger rose higher. The vampire returned to his task more determined than ever and didn’t waste another second. The wooden missile rushed down to meet its target…


	4. Sux2bu

Feet riveted to the floor, House was aware there was nothing restraining his arms as he listened to Wilson’s last words. The deadly point flashed downwards, but House’s reflexes were in hyper-drive. His hand slid to the bottom of his cane as he swung it back and sent it spinning across the room.

It twirled in the air, a helicopter on a deadly mission, and sharply struck Wilson's hands, forcing the fingers to release the weapon. The smaller projectile fled to the opposite wall where both crashed into the bookcase. The spike broke into useless bits as it clipped the edge of the empty bookshelf. The cane landed safely among the splinters.

A seething, frustrated roar bellowed from the back of Wilson's throat as he fell to his knees. After the first shockwave, grinding words issued through clenched teeth, “Damn you House!”

House heard the fury, but was more concerned over the injury his cane caused. Wilson held his arms up close to his body, crossing his wrists as he rocked back and forth in pain.  
   
Hobbling over and easing himself down to the floor, House offered assistance, “Here, let me see.” Wilson, was in too much distress to pull away as the diagnostician carefully examined the purple swollen hands. House inwardly sighed. At least the injury would put a stop to any more suicide attempts. His offer to share his pills was swiftly rejected as was his recommendation, “Both hands have fractures, or possible breaks. I’ll drive you to the hospi--”

Wilson hissed, “No. No, you’ve done enough for one night. It’ll heal on it’s own. If you want to help, you can either set me on fire, or give me a steady hand so I can get up.”

“No other choices?” House stood up, collected his cane at the bookcase, tested it, and returned to grab Wilson’s upper arm as his friend awkwardly got to his feet. Wilson was none to steady, and was too preoccuppied to notice that House didn’t remove his hand, “I could drive you out and dump you on the railroad track? Decapitation doesn’t interest you?”

Some of the pain in the brown eyes was replaced with astonishment, “Is that why you returned? You sensed what I was thinking?”

“You’re surprised? Didn’t you say we’re connected, Wilson? You knew it went both ways.”

Many emotions chased across the drawn and pale features. But, the vamp generator was failing again. Before he could reply, Wilson slumped toward House, but was still standing on his power, “We can discuss this la-later House, it’s almost morning, and I need to rest. I heal better at dawn.”

House didn’t want to let go after they reached the bed. Holding on to the “Master” was somewhat arousing, but this time the connection was definitely moving in one direction. With exhaustion written over the waxen features, and the hands resembling swollen boxing gloves resting on his stomach, Wilson wasn’t about to make the first or second move.

House went over to the other side of the bed and lay down along side the drained man. He managed to hear quiet mumbling, “Is this a suicide watch? It’s hard to tell which one of us is in more trouble.”

Raising his head from the pillow, House didn’t see Wilson move a muscle, “You haven’t the strength to puncture a bag of blood.”  He sank back down, and began to drift off when he caught more muttering by his side, but all he could make out was a fragment, “…bite you just to shut you up.”

The room brightened with the rising sun. House’s mind was whirling and wrapping around all the discoveries he made. Searching for a win-win scenario for them both, “Wilson? You still awake?”

“Yessss, I am now.”

“How long are you going to be out for repairs?”

“Mmm, all day. Without blood the sun’s gonna shut me down.” Still as a corpse, Wilson’s voice developed an edge, “Why?”

"Because I thought I’d invite a hooker over, and I don’t want to share. You’ll be out until sunset?”

“You’re worrying me, House. Yeah, I’m gonna sleep like the dea--” Just then rays of fire outlined the window shades like a corona. All movement ceased, and Wilson’s pronouncement came true. There was only one living and breathing man in the room.

House was startled out of any thoughts of sleep. He'd never get used to dead Wilson, but right now it worked in his favor. The connection was broken, but he was sure the golden chain would ensnare his heart and soul when the sun went down. He was convinced it was the connection that would be their salvation. 

He blessed the demon or diety who freed him from his sexual urge to jump the handsome man. Sex with alive or vampire Wilson was a heady idea, but necrophilia was a buzz kill.

Once he reassured himself that there was a pulse, though slower than any mammal on the planet, he was free to move around the cabin. He would pass on the in-flight entertainment and get some sleep first.

With a few hours rest, he would still have time to escape the apartment, work on his scheme, and return before Wilson opened his eyes.

* * *

It was mid-morning when House awoke. Wilson, true to his human word, was decked out for the morgue, but there was one improvement, the hands looked more like ski gloves then boxing mitts. Patches of mottled yellow-green intruded upon the angry purple. He could leave for a few hours and not worry about his friend tearing up any more furniture or cleaning tools to execute himself.

House had a plan. It was a lousy one like so many of his third-guess diagnoses, but he would run with it for the same reason he went with the others. It was all he had. If he didn’t persuade Wilson to drink from him, his friend would be the special-of-the-day at a vegan restaurant. The skin was taking on the original pallor from the previous evening and dark circles were appearing under the eyes. He was anxious about how much energy was expended during the last hallucination and the healing process for the hands. Time was running out.  
   
Throwing a last glance at the silent form, he hustled out of the apartment.

The first stop was the supermarket. A spin around the perimeter, one or two food aisles and his basket was full with everything he needed, butter, meat, wood chips, and matches along with essential junk food. He swiped Wilson’s debit card through the reader, punching in the topsy-turvy but not-so-secret-code, 9116, that he spied so long ago during the Tritter fiasco. He mused. Wilson was creature of habit, or maybe that was the trail of bread crumbs he left behind to keep everyone off-balance and not notice the “dead” ringer underneath.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the checker who handed five 20’s and the receipt over to him as she asked in an ordinary voice, “Big barbeque for this weekend, Mr. Wilson?”

House wanted to glare at the pedestrian sounding clerk, but he looked up and noticed she was far from mundane. Her black palette of lipstick, nails and shaggy hair came together with assorted piercings. He realized that she was a kindred spirit who would find his best friend awesome, and responded with a confidential wink, “Planning a surprise for my girlfriend. Tonight, I’m gonna ask her to take the big plunge with me.”

“Cool. That calls for champagne. Do you want the clerk to bring you a bottle?”

“No she’s partial to red, and it’s already at room temperature waiting for her. Just the way she likes it.”

* * *

Returning to his apartment, House dragged heavy plastic bags full of essential ingredients onto the counter, and made another trip to lug in a large canister purchased at the hardware store. Thankfully, his leg pain wasn’t his constant companion this weekend. It called and left a few messages, but no 911’s. After Wilson’s refusal to take any of his pills, and the hung-over reaction to the small sample of blood, he didn’t think Vicodin was a vampire approved drug.

House made himself as comfortable as possible in the kitchen. Today, he’d think of the space as his laboratory, and get down to business. He brought in a chair, and sat down with a timer and notepad as he experimented with a couple of surefire recipes to reach a vampire’s heart.

A few hours later, he stood up stretching his arms in victory. His oven was a coal mine, and the funeral for his microwave was calendared for Monday if he was able to avoid one for himself. He kissed the detailed notes for luck. It was all he had to rely upon.  
   
He aired the apartment while he showered and changed before returning to Dracula’s den.

* * *

It was still daylight when he dragged a twin set of supplies up to Wilson’s. He arranged the chops on a flat pan, heaping soaked wood chips over the free surfaces, placed it on the top shelf of the cold broiler, and closed the door. Two cubes of butter were unwrapped on a dish, and buried in the freezer where it could quickly chill. Two canisters were secreted under the sofa.

Grabbing several packages of chips and a box of fireplace matches, he was ready for the last two tests in his culinary bag of tricks.

With the last rays of the sun gleefully descending to the horizon and painting the apartment muted gold, he wandered back to the bedroom. Sitting at the foot of the bed he tore open a bag of chips and focused his attention on the salty goodness.

He crunched.

Waited.

Watched.

Waited.

Watched.

Crunched…

In the dim light, he tossed the empty bag into the wastebasket and scored.

It was past sunset and still his master slept. _His master! _The connection was once again taking hold. He switched on the light and inspected the body. The fingers were now recognizable as puffed sausages, and the discoloration gone. Larger and darker circles smudged the skin under the eyes, but the breathing was that of a sleeping man. A gentle snore issued from the nose and back of the throat.

Seizing the moment, House struck the fireplace match, bringing it close to Wilson’s face until he was waving it under his nose. Wilson woke with a strangled cry, automatically moving his hands to avoid the flame but regretted the gesture as his stiff fingers protested the sudden flexing. The brown eyes resembled a panicked horse in a barn fire.

“House! What are you doing?! Get that away from me! First knives, now matches. There ought to be some way to issue a restraining order banning you from touching ordinary household items.”

Ignoring the dig, House’s eyes glittered at his findings as he blew out the match and limped away from the bed.

“Heads up!” The chips flew through the air toward Wilson’s head. Making a successful grab, the doctor's brown eyes blinked with the effort. Looking at the bag with distate, its next stop was the wastebasket. House permitted a small smile of satisfaction. Wilson passed both tests. If he could get him to buy into his plan, he could be turning in his season pass to the Magic Kingdom tonight.

Wilson was sitting up in bed, yawning into the back of his hand when House issued his invitation, “Aren't you getting hungry?” He pulled the t-shirt away and exposed his neck, “Want something to drink?”

Ship signals flashed from Wilson’s eyes, but his hand swiped across them, and it was gone, “House, why are you so intent on me killing you? I’ve tried everything to get you to leave, and yet you keep coming back.”  
   
House sat back down. “We're the perfect pair. I’m self-destructive, and you bring new meaning to self-sacrifice.”

Wilson’s response was a grunt as he pushed his hands into the mattress and moved to the side of the bed, staring at the his feet. “Something’s not right. You shouldn’t feel so strongly connected since I never drank directly from you.”

“You moron, do you honestly believe our connection began yesterday? As if we weren't always connected before this? It’s the fries you buy, and I eat. The money you lend that I’ll never return. The couch with the sunken outline of your body in the cushions. It’s the shared wall between our offices that separates, but also connects us."

A vulture couldn’t stare at the floor more intently than Wilson. “Stealing is not sharing.”

“Did you get that from this year’s almanac, Farmer Wilson? Is that really important?! You admitted yesterday the sharing, or _stealing_ wasn’t all that appealed to you about our friendship. You couldn’t spit it out, but I could read your stuttering as if it was Morse code. More importantly I can read every inflection in your face. You’re attracted to me in all ways possible. No one in their right mind becomes friends with a misanthropic jerk. They run as fast as they can in the other direction. 

“And what about me? Didn’t you ever wonder why I wanted your company? You really think a free lunch is that important to put up with your nagging and safety conscious Volvo loving ways?

“Remember, I'm in touch with my inner eight year old child. I _am_ my inner eight year old child. I steal chips and make a nuisance of myself to attract the boy I have a crush on. Like kids hiding in a tree house making a sacred pact with spit and blood. We’re blood brothers. Can I make it any clearer? That’s how we are connected.”

House gulped as he was about to blow his cover, “I don’t want to lose you.” But, he quickly headed for safety, “And, I don’t want to miss out on the best sex of my life.”

A zephyr blew near his ear and provided a sensual shiver, “House.” He felt a hand run down his forearm. The grip was light and electric. He felt a twitch below his belt. “You mean a lot to me, and I want to protect you. You can’t imagine how many things can go wrong.” Wilson was shaking his head over the possibilities, but it meant he was considering taking a chance and gauging the risks involved.  
   
The hand snaked around his back and a velvet touch seared a fiery trail up and down his spine. House grabbed on to Wilson’s waist and the charge amped beyond UL standards, as their breath became ragged. Then, as if Princeton went off the power grid, the current snapped off as Wilson pushed away and stumbled out of the room. He acted as if he was a fugitive running away from the scene of a crime.

House inhaled a deep breath before following. He found a shadowy figure huddled in the corner of the sofa.

Sitting down, he left space between them, “Hey, willing victim here. No need to Eeyore yourself to death.”

“Yes, why should I worry about you getting stung to death by bees while trying to get your paws on the honey?”

“I love when you speak soft porn to me.”

“I’m speaking about murder.”

“My mistake. Kinky porn.”

“House!”

Changing tactics, House trained his patent pending hound-dog expression on Wilson, “Everything important involves risk.” He nuzzled a little closer, “If it keeps you healthy and at the hospital where you belong…and if being caressed feels anything like what just happened…?”

Wilson shot off the sofa so fast he swayed for a moment and placed his hands on his hips. Discomfort rode over his face, and he quickly folded his arms over his chest, “Yeah, says the man who likes to stick knives into wall outlets…”

“You can’t compare the two, you gave me a stiffy. I had a limp dick for weeks after the other.” He couldn’t resist the possibility of sex and self-destruction at the hands of Wilson. What could be better? Stretching his arms out along the top of the couch, he spread his legs, exposing his jean covered crotch. House batted his baby blues in mock flirtation, “Is the caress really like hot sex?”

A bushy eyebrow shot up. House could see Wilson aching to answer the question, he nervously moistened his lips with his tongue and then pressed his mouth together forming a pinched line. Agitated hands sought comfort and a safe place to hide. The man was embroiled in an ethical battle whether to tell the truth or lie about his sexual prowess. House wasn’t going to wait and see which way Wilson was going to fold. “That good, huh?” He was repaid with silence, and decided the only way he would get any answers was to feign disinterest.

Lowering the lids over his eyes, he shrugged. “It's probably some fantasy manufactured by Hollywood screenwriters and agoraphobic novelists. Bet the reality is vampire sex is not half as good as hot monkey sex." 

He struck a nerve, because brown eyes flashed that remarkable metallic silver, and the sealed lips emitted a derisive laugh, "Let me spare you going through the simian scale. Neither hot monkey nor steaming sweaty gorilla sex registers high enough to be included on any vamp sex scale."

The ape remark was serving as an aphrodisiac. House felt mounting pressure and tightness as his pants began to bind. Both eyebrows steepled over vivid blue as he croaked, “Is it as good as mind blowing sex?”

Wilson smirked, "Doesn't even begin to describe it. Neither does make-up sex or “Playboy” mansion sex if you could roll them into one." In faint imitation of his superhero pose, the oncologist straightened his shoulders and hid his arms behind his back. The face transformed into an Egyptian Pharaoh, “No matter what sex you’ve had before, you will feel like a virgin.”

“Like the song?”

The princely façade cracked, as a smile played upon his lips, “Kissed for the very first time.” The jazz hands went up, “It doesn’t get any better.”

Then Wilson caught himself, and there was pure anguish as he spoke, “Jeeze, House, it’s meant to keep you begging for more until the last drop of blood is sucked out of you." His voice lowered, "There are no safe words to rely on. This is _deadly_ serious.”

House wasn’t buying the angst, “But, what a way to go. And, what if I survive? What happens then? You mean I’ll be tied to you for the rest of my life having rest home sex without Viagra?”

Wilson shook his head and leaned against the wall, “No, No. But the connection becomes controllable, and there is little risk of me killing you. Sexual encounters become more selective but no less passionate. Instead of a trip around the world, it’s more like a three continent tour. Rafting down Amazonian falls, feeling the savage heat of the Kalahari as you stare down a hungry lion’s throat, your bloodstream surging with adrenaline while you’re skiing down an Alaskan glacier.”

House was elated, until he heard the end of the travelogue. Wilson finished dryly, “Of course, there is the matter of the reduced number of orgasms.”

The sparkle in House’s eyes dimmed until Wilson raised his hand. “Instead of limitless orgasms, maybe a steady half-dozen…in the space of a few minutes.” Wilson was warming to his subject, “After all, you’re a cripple and an old one at that. Perhaps, with practice we can stretch it to a full dozen. That is, if  we make it through the first time.”

A ghost of a memory flitted over House’s thoughts. “So, why did you break off with EMT guy?”

Wilson grimaced at the memory, “One of Zehava’s jokes at my expense. She wanted me to grow larger balls and turn him. She didn’t tell me Bill and I could have ‘safe sex’ after the caress. That information was her parting gift to me.”

“So, lackey boy’s loss is my gain.” House’s eyes darkened, and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. No kid could be more enthralled with a bedtime story that ended with every messy loose end tied up into a big beautiful bow. Eyes wide open, the blue irises were outlined by white, “Holy Washington Monument, Batman! Where do I sign up!”

Wilson sighed, and rubbed at his forehead, “You already are.” He turned away and shook his head. House could still hear a mufled curse, “Damn.”

“Lestat wouldn’t be angsting the way you are. We have no choice. It’s all in, or we die.”  House levered off the sofa, “Well, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you go to the bedroom, listen to show tunes on your iPod, and make yourself pretty while I prepare a surprise for you out here.”

Looking wary, Wilson prodded, “Surprise? What kind of a surprise?”

“Leave everything to me. I have no intention of either of us changing, whether it is into carrion or eggplant. I have a plan.”

House watched in victory as Wilson shuffled back to the bedroom with a groan.

Vampire, schmampire. Minion, schminion. House permitted the anticipation within him to spread a flush through his body and a smile on his face.

Tonight was the night he was finally getting his chance to grab Wilson’s ass.


	5. Hot Sucking

House returned to the bedroom to see how Wilson was holding up after elevating the kitchen from "low risk" green to yellow alert.

He kept a straight face when he saw the vampire looking more like a victim than a predator. Wilson's arms pinned the blanket to his sides and he had it tucked under his armpits. The only wares on display were naked shoulders and a too pale face with swirls of dark hair falling over it.

“You’re not a Jewish virgin anymore, and I hope you’re not a tease, or are you?” Limping closer he lifted the blanket to reassure himself that the coveted body was naked. He saw a slash of skin and hair, creamy and rosy in all in the right places before Wilson slammed his arms down on the coverlet and sealed off the enticing view.

“Of course I’m not a virgin, but giving you the "kiss" is a big step. I haven’t caressed a male for over a decade, and have no idea how to break away, but you keep trumpeting your plan. What the hell is it?”

“If I told you, I would lose the element of surprise, my dear Wilson. Like curing hiccups.”

“How could I doubt your mad genius? Stopping hiccups and vampires are one and the same. Is it anything like your last plan? Feed a vampire, starve a fever? Because that’s what landed us in this mess in the first place.

“By the way, how many pills did you take today? Of course, you considered my reaction to them?"

House answered smugly, “I did, so I didn’t. I want 'It' to be working at full capacity." He pulled out the bottle, and threw it toward Wilson, who fumbled the catch with his stiffened fingers, and scrabbled to find the vial among the folds in the sheet. While the oncologist jiggled and peered at the almost full bottle under the lamplight, House supplied, “Sober for twenty-four hours, do you approve?”

“I’m amazed. I could go into cardiac arrest if my heart started beating.”

The crack was a fresh reminder of how vulnerable Wilson was right now. For all the chatter, he looked awful. House limped over and checked the pulse in his wrist. Wilson attempted to wrestle it away, but House refused to let go. Yesterday he wouldn’t have had a chance against Wilson’s strength. Even the electric charge between them was a mere hum. “It’s slowing again. How long before you need more blood?”

“I’m fine.”

House stared unflinchingly at his friend.

Wilson closed his eyes, doing a silent inventory, “I’ve got an hour, maybe more.”

“More than enough time. This party gets started as soon as you answer my questions.”  
   
Wilson struggled to sit up, and the covers fell away to his waist, “More questions? Don’t you ever stop? You don’t talk during sex do you? Because, tha-that’s a deal breaker.”

House didn’t respond. He was eyeing Wilson’s chest, it was smooth with touches of peach fuzz. His fingers ran over the exposed skin. He could swear he felt pinpricks under his fingertips as he traced up the center of the abdomen. His eye caught a small pucker of skin above the left nipple. It looked like a scar from a burn, about the size of a half-dollar. Wilson followed the crystal blue orbs to their destination and looked embarrassed as he attempted to cover the blemish with his hand, but House batted it away, and touched it. The enticing sizzle vanished as the mottled flesh turned dark, and an image appeared. As he lifted his hand, he saw a full-blown rose. Some of the petals were pealed back as if they were dropping off, but a second look revealed that the curls created the image of vampire teeth. He placed his finger on it again, “What’s this?”

Wilson winced, “What’s what?”

House was losing his patience, “Now’s not the time for games. Why does Mr. Conventional, with a little Transylvanian perv on the side have a tattoo of a flower on his chest? Your wives never told me about this.”

Wilson tried squirming away, but seemed pinned to the bed as he hissed in pain, “You can see it? For God’s sake stop touching!”

Just then, a whiff of smoke issued from under House’s finger. He quickly removed his hand, but a black fingerprint was scored into the flesh. House looked at the offending digit, but there was no trace of a blister and the fingertip was fine. He returned his gaze, and saw the wounded skin and tattoo fading. “What the hell was that?! Does it mean your schlong is gonna explode if I give it a hand job?”

Wilson closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows. He was mumbling, “I swear House, up until now no one ever saw more than a small scar. The tattoo is only visible to members of 'The Family'.”

House ran a hand over his face. _Crap! How many secrets did Wilson have?_ “You’re not talking about the Wilson family are you?”

“No, I’m talking about ‘La Famiglia Delle Rose,’ my sire’s family and mine. The symbol of our house.” Wilson was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, but none appeared. However, his dimple made an appearance. He raised a hand to his neck, but then thought better of it, “Something’s not right, House. We shouldn’t go through with this.”

The diagnostician was fed up. The whole damn scheme was a house of cards ready to collapse from it’s own weight, but he wasn’t about to tell his best friend that. He slapped his forehead, “What’s the matter with me? I keep forgetting you’ve turned into an idiot.

“Listen to me. There are no other options. There’s no turning back. We can figure out what it means later. For now, I’m checking off  ‘no touching the invisible tattoo.’”

He was starting to wonder if Wilson was sane, and if he was, then he doubted his own sanity. “What else do I need to know about your medical history? How about the exploding schvantz?”

Wilson waggled his eyebrows, “If you mean ‘Old Faithful,’ then I’d say it’s in great shape. Too bad I packed up Amber’s diary or you could have read what she thought of it.”

“’Check,’ functions every hour-and-a-half. You’re not proud of that fact are you? I’d burn the back-up evidence."

House persevered, “What about lube? Condoms?”

Looking like a sphinx holding the secret of eternity, and maybe he was, Wilson sighed out a breath. “It’s…not…necessary. I can’t give or get STD’s. Bring towels if you want. There’s no need for lube either. I guarantee you won’t feel anything but pleasure.” Looking House straight in the eye, “But, you do know that the biggest sexual organ is the brain? Vampire sex is very real, but most of the stimulation comes from our connection when I bite.”

Disappointment dripped from House, “And, you can read ‘Penthouse’ without the pictures, but what the hell fun is that?!”

“You’ve noticed what happens when we touch? I promise, it’s everything I said. You will have a corporeal experience, but what we do physically may be limited and more ‘virtual.’” Wilson’s eyes twinkled, “You really don’t want an ‘all natural’ blow job from me, do you?” His mouth opened slightly to display exceptional canines.

House was doubtful now, but this was a rescue mission as much as a sexcapade. “Speaking about those sippers, can you set them to stun or slow, or do they only wolf down blood at one speed?”

Wrinkles appeared on Wilson’s brow, “Wha-? Is that relevant?” He thought about it as he ran his tongue over sharpened teeth. “Yeah, I can take it slow, but that won’t make it any easier to let go.”

“How many pints per minute?”

“Is this a word problem?”

His tank was almost on empty as House snapped out, “Answer the question for once without being a Talmudic scholar. It’s important, damnit!”

Wilson rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead as he blinked to focus. House felt a pang of guilt as he observed the lengthening shadows under the eyes, matched by the hollowed cheeks. He was sure Wilson miscalculated, and they were running out of time.

The answer was slow in coming, “Four, maybe five ounces a minute.”

House nodded at the information, and cleared his throat, “Sorry, for getting tough Jimmy.”

A hand waved off the apology.

A few more arrangements and they would be ready. House headed out the door.

Wilson was barely aware of the scraping and metal clanging coming from the other room. He was beginning to shiver, but not from passion. He deliberately lied to House about how little reserve energy was left, and unless he returned in the next five minutes it would be too late. He prayed House would come back in six.

Sniffing and wiping away a tear, he knew he failed. No matter what dangers and roadblocks he placed in House’s way, his friend was determined to be caressed, and he didn’t have the strength anymore to deny him.

Once in his arms, he’d drink deeply and revitalize. Then, if nothing stopped him, he would either kill House or embrace him. Another tear slid down his cheek. The embrace would cause more pain for his friend than a pharmacy full of Vicodin could eliminate.  
   
Layers of grey veils floated and fell upon him until he was captured in a world of shadows. He sensed rather than saw the limping man return to the room, the sound of the closet door and clothes dropping to the floor, and the warm body huddle next to him in the bed.

As if from far away, he heard House speak his name in a low seductive voice, and his vampire nature stirred. An inner spark jumped to life within him, and his arms sought out and wrapped around his new lover. He heard the rhythmic pumping of a heart, and the rush of blood sweeping through a body. His mouth watered at the faint sweet coppery scent emanating right below the surface. He held back for a moment to listen, see, and feel House’s essence until he was assured he could deliver the last ride of a lifetime for the both of them.

Arms enveloped House. First gentle, then firm and knowledgeable. Wilson’s whispered in his ear, “Now this will sting a bit.” He should have known the oncologist’s bedside manner would be impeccable. He automatically stiffened at the touch of twin points scratching his skin. It hurt like a big dog as they sunk deep into his neck. He waited for the payoff, but all he felt was searing pain, and his body heated up like a blowtorch, but nothing else happened. He felt unreasonable paranoia and his mind jeered, _Wilson lied again! Never trust a fucking vampire!_

Then the burning cooled as if he lay on smooth river rocks with a brook stream babbling over him. His body chilled, and then he was comforted by radiant warmth that flowed through every single fiber of his being, leaving him relaxed and limber. Even his thigh was pain-free. No longer an outsider, it joined the party.

Glorious sensations poured over and through him. It was something between sex and a spectacular drug trip. He heard live jazz, and was caressed by a golden autumn while cocooned in cool satin sheets. The taste of 100-year-old brandy trickled down his throat. The fragrance of a new car interior, fine leather shoes, and the musky scent of Wilson wafted over him.

Smiles, kisses and sexual heat singed him as he saw familiar faces: His first love while in high school, a college girlfriend, a roommate with matching stubble like his, a double jointed hooker named Falana, and, of course, Stacy. Their hands were all over him, making their best moves. Mouths kissed him, and hands stroked him.

He whimpered as the sensations melted away, and he plunged down a black hole, only to be greeted at the other end by a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns. Red-hot red, and flame tipped gold died down to the neon blue of tickling peacock feathers. The world spun, and he was falling. He reached out to catch himself, but strong arms caught him. Arms of iron cable covered in the clotted cream of heavy silk.

The scent of ozone and the snap of static electricity overwhelmed him. Wilson was his tour guide, chauffeur, and racing car driver as the expert hands glided over his body. Touching, seeking, massaging, and tasting.

Every muscle relaxed, but beckoned for more.

Wilson worked magic spells. There were baby kisses light and sweet followed behind by hungry searching ones. A tongue demanded entry into his mouth, exploring and playing with his own. The tongue-mouth duo journeyed to other locales, swirling and pushing deep into muscle. Teeth raked and pinched pliable skin, punctuated by a dedicated sucking mouth. Every particle of his body prickled with a custom touch inspired to arouse.

Mouth, teeth, tongue, hands traveled up and down the length of him. Ear lobes tickled and buzzed with soft nibbling. His body was engulfed in exotic sensations. Nipples tightened at moist licks and teasing flicks, and teeth encouraged the tiny peaks to harden and wrinkle.

One moment Wilson plucked one string, the next his hands played over him like a harp. Coaxing. Prodding. Pushing limits.

Thumbs pressed into the arch of his foot, massaging and kneading from heal to toe. Hot oil was sprinkled and slathered from his belly to his shoulders, and as it cooled the excess was brushed onto his cock. He groaned as fingers played over his perineum, and he gasped at the light tug at his balls followed by a rhythmic hand motion sliding continuously over his rock-hard erection. He sharply bucked as the knowing tongue joined the game, greeting the tip of his cock with an assured swipe. The size of his cock bulged as soft warm lips imposed tight encompassing pressure. The mouth rode up and down its length until eager throat muscles encircled and swallowed. Whimpers joined begging grunts as his body grabbed, pushed, pulled and rubbed for more. Wilson answered by providing inexhaustible invention.

One moment he couldn’t breathe, and the next he couldn’t catch his breath.

His body bucked. Bucked for more until he would break in two, and then his body strained for sweet release. Wilson echoed him, wallowing in their mutual heaven. He yelled to the devils beneath the earth’s crust to buy his soul and free the surging energy within.

He was riding a renegade train rattling off its tracks as he ground his teeth, arched his back, and thrust his hips as come streamed from his cock.

Every tissue, every blood cell stretched into a honeyed ache and collapsed back into salty shuddering violent orgasm. Cells shattered. Muscles shredded and entwined stretching beyond limits. He imploded. Wilson held onto him as the world toppled, growling out his own lust.

Unaware of tears streaming down his face, he entered free fall expecting to land softly to earth. He drifted in a void. He was nothing more than loose nerve endings floating in a plate of jelly waiting for Wilson to lick him up. An amoeba buffered in a sea…

Before reaching shore, the parachute jerked and he was lifted up the roller coaster again. His body was not his own, it sang with every gentle and rough touch, every cool and moist breath. Nails dug deep into his shoulders. Clawed down his back. A slow hand gripped his erection, but it gained speed as it pumped him to a fully invested hard-on. With each motion his muscles stretched to the limit and his small toes bent to his arches. His body was slick with sweat. When he thought he could take no more, Wilson’s stiffened cock entered his ass and found the prostate. The seesawing stroke caused a delirious howl to flash through his groin and reverberate as ripples through his body.

Somewhere an idiot was babbling at the top of his lungs.

Decibels rattled his eardrums, _God! Oh God! MORE!!! _But he had no idea if he shouted the prayer from his lungs or his heart. He never wanted it to end. Selling his soul would be too small a price to pay. He’d raise the ante and offer to cut off his leg to have the rapture continue.

Come erupted like lava from a volcano. He swore the orgasm broke his body into microscopic bits as he slid into another universe where time stood still.

A black star winked away a fraction of eternity, and his body reassembled over ragged shallow breaths.

Before he could envision what reality looked like, there was another seismic shockwave that rocked him and knocked the air out of his lungs. Cool oxygen raced into the vacuum, and a series of fevered orgasms rumbled through his body ignoring the need for release.

In the back of his mind he realized this was what Wilson warned about. How long had it been? Three minutes? Perpetuity? He didn’t care.

Wilson was in his head. _'House, I’ve wanted you for so long, but please forgive me, I haven't the will to stop.' _House could only moan and cry out, “Don’t stop you fucker. Again! Again! Harder!”

After another string of jolting orgasms, words formed deep in his core and he spat with hardened passion, “Now, it's my turn.”

In this very real virtual universe, he slammed Wilson against a wall, his back and ass all his for the taking. He snaked his arms around to the chest and fanned his fingers, riding them over the nipples, then pinched the buds hard as he bit into a shoulder. His hands pulled back and drove due south until firm muscled cheeks presented perfect hand holds meant for squeezing.

The heat from their bodies created a furnace of bedlam, and he was out of control. He pushed Wilson to the floor, signaling him with pokes and jabs to get on all fours. He crushed his chest against the smooth back, entering Wilson with a brutal thrust that was welcomed with a willing grunt. Dual rhythms drove his body automatically as he jack hammered home his cock into the snug opening, and stroked Wilson’s erection with his hand. Harsh shouts joined together as they came at the same time.

There was another roar and crash from his body. He toppled onto Wilson, and they both fell to the ground exhausted.

He died.

They were helplessly adrift, desiring nothing more than a killer 40-foot wave to return them to their wanton world.

On the edge of consciousness he heard exploding pops and smelled smoke. Concentrating on the sandpaper cheek and tongue roughing up his chest, he ignored everything else, and burrowed his face into Wilson’s silky hair. He licked the seashell ear, and whispered in silence, _I want more! One more ride on the roller coaster…Slam down a wave…Fly through a nebula._

His wish was granted and the cycle began again. His skin tingled from Wilson’s breath. More kisses followed by more tugs and a hand glided upon his cock until it swelled. His balls tightened and pearly come discharged like a machine gun. He moaned. He shook so hard his joints cracked.

Wilson was shaking him.

His mouth and nose filled with a dusty bitter taste. There would be no time to sail down from the clouds, or bask in afterglow.

“House! House! The place is on fire, we gotta get out of here.” Wilson was dragging House from the bed over to the fire escape window.

His mind snapped out of the whirlwind, and he cursed reality - the one he so deliberately constructed. His head cleared quickly while his throat constricted from the smoke.

Expecting this very reaction from Wilson, he adhered to his plan of action, and broke free of his friend’s grasp. “No! You get out of here. I’ll take care of this.”

He pushed the terrified man toward the window.

Brown eyes blackened with fright. A vampire’s fear of fire was instinctive, and Wilson couldn’t control his blind panic. Self-hate spoiled the beautiful features as he turned to the window.

House swiped a bundle of clothes he’d prepared earlier. “Hey “Wilson! Catch!” Wilson swiveled just in time to intercept the jeans and shirt hurtling through the air. House pasted on a rakish carefree grin and snapped out a smart salute, “Thanks for the first date. Sorry you have to leave in a hurry.” 

Already dressed and with one foot out the window, Wilson hesitated and gritted his teeth, “House I can’t abandon you.”

“Sure you can. Fire and vampires don’t mix. That’s what I counted on all along. Go. You’re cell phone is in your pants' pocket. Monitor the fire from the street. Call 911 if it’s not under control and I don’t come down in two minutes.”

Wilson nodded and was gone.

Without wasting any further time, House jumped into his jeans and wrapped his t-shirt around his face to cover his nose. He followed the wisp of dark smoke hugging the ceiling into the great room.

He grabbed one of the extinguishers he left near the doorway and assessed the fire as he slipped off the latch. It was worse than he anticipated. He relied on Wilson’s sensitivity to smoke to break off the caress while the fire was a kitchen disaster of the inedible food kind, instead it was an arsonist’s version of heaven. A fire-breathing dragon roared from the oven’s stronghold spewing flames that licked and crackled the bottom of the upper cabinets. Smoke seeped out of the microwave, escaping into the heaving charcoal clouds clinging to the ceiling and thickening with every ticking second. It’s own ecosystem, the arid heat sucked the life out of the room. A cabinet door exploded, and then another sent glasses and dishes flying in every direction and shattering onto the floor. He ducked as a fiery plank missed his head by inches.

He began spraying down the burning debris working his way to the center of the inferno.

He wasn’t about to lie to himself. He was in deep shit. That last orgasm may have cost him his life after all. While he contained one side of the fire, the flames danced out of control on the other. The turbulent billowing cloud multiplied in mass.

The canister's weight was diminishing. He'd have to switch to the second one, but he was afraid the time lost couldn't be made up. Not only was his life in jeopardy, but the residents of the building. He was going to hell after all.

From the corner of his eye he spotted movement, and off to his left there was a plume of foam. A twin to his.  
   
Wilson was next to him shooting off the second canister.

They worked in unison. The two of them silently concentrated on tamping down angry blazes and corralling the chaos back to the fiery lair. Their feet slowly edged closer to the offending appliances. As House's extinguisher disgorged the last of the retardant onto retreating flames, Wilson covered the microwave in a mountain of foam. House dealt the final blow by solidly kicking the oven door shut with his foot. Armistice was reached by clicking the stove knob to the off position.

The last of the fire was smothered.

And, they survived.

House pulled the “T” away from his nose. The top of his face was black from soot. He watched Wilson limp slowly to the windows to air the room. He realized his leg didn’t wail in sympathy. It preferred to dance a jig.

Observing his inamorato clutching his right thigh as he worked his way from window to window, House concluded Wilson must have pulled a muscle or twisted his knee on the fire escape.

When Wilson finished, he swiveled and fixed House with a glare. Favoring his left leg for balance, his hands sought his hips, but thought better of it, and shook his head as he dropped his hands, deciding to point instead. Opening and closing his mouth like a fish, Wilson let his hand fall to his side too. For once he was speechless and at a loss for hand gestures.

Soot blackened sweat stained faces stared at each other. They both held their ground for a couple of beats before narrowing the gap between them. One moved slower than the other, but they met in the center of their universe as they fell into each other’s arms.

* * *

Wilson rummaged through his closet sniffing clothes before deciding which he would discard or toss into the open suitcase on the bed. Fully recharged, he was looking like his old self again - bangs and slight puffy features back on display.

House stretched out next to the case, twirling his cane. He amused himself by guessing which garment would be rejected because of smoke damage, but soon grew bored as he realized he could easily draw the right conclusion by detecting a green blush spreading over Wilson’s cheeks.

Before packing, they spent time showering together. House created a fruit salad from the numerous body washes, shampoos and conditioners overloading Wilson’s shower caddy, and they soaped and jerked each other off in the most natural way possible. Except for the prickling charge that swept over them, they were thrilled to discover not every touch created an opportunity for a death lock.

When the closet was empty and the case half-full, Wilson made a halting journey over to the bed and sat alongside House, running his hand up and down the doctor's leg. “I’m ready when you are.”

House held out his cane offering it to Wilson, “You need this more than I do. Why didn’t you tell me the caress would transfer my pain to you?”

“Because I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace if you knew.” Wilson’s lips thinned with annoyance, “Look what I had to go through without you knowing. You gave me a hangover from a controlled substance, broke my hands, burned my chest, burned down half of my apartment, and you outed me on two fronts.”

The lips returned to the familiar Cupid’s bow, “The effect only lasts a few days, so don’t get used to it.” Wilson was twirling the cane in his own mended fingers. He’d watched House do it enough times in the past to copy him. He continued smugly, “My pain will be gone by sunrise.”

“And mine will  go away when you come to me for blood.”

Wilson looked uncomfortable, “Don’t count on it. It doesn’t always work that way.”

Considering the reply, House listened to an invisible muse, “Grace. It was you, and not the virus.”

“Yes. Grace. But, the virus did play a role. While I was living with her, I switched her pills with a placebo. She improved, but after a few weeks the caress didn’t help any more. I was switching her back to a normal regimen when that kid touched her. The virus bought her a few additional months.”

House smirked, “House and Wilson vs. God? Poor schmuck never has a chance against us.”

As if reading each other’s thoughts, they both stood up, and headed to the front door. Neither one carried the case.

Wilson looked at the forgotten travel bag and then at House, “Well?”

“Well??”

“I’m the cripple here, aren’t you gonna help?”

“Can’t you levitate it with your ey--?”

“NO!”

Pulling a long face, House whined, “But you have vampire strength, and I’m a mere mortal.”

Stumping back to the bed, Wilson grabbed the case handle and grumbled under his breath as he shoved past House, “Fine minion I picked to do my bidding.”

“You must be suffering from smoke inhalation, it was I who picked you.”

Wilson forgot the banter as he stood stock-still and confronted the ruined great room. He turned to House. “Why were you cooking? You can barely stick two pieces of bread together with peanut butter and jelly.”

House fanned his arm over the entire length of the room, “I did this all for you. Are you scoffing at my brilliant plan?”

“No, I’m estimating the damage to my bank account.”

“It was a recipe meant to break off the caress. Fire and smoke - the number one answer to stopping your best buddy from gnawing on your neck if he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

“You told me about Bill and the ambulance ride to the fire. You mentioned smelling smoke in the cab.” Pointing to the fireplace, “It’s never been used, and you, the professional panty peeler would never ignore such a romantic prop unless you were allergic to flames and smoke. It all came together when you decided to ‘off’ yourself and I saw an image of you burning up in a fire.”

Slightly skewed brown eyes filled with surprise as Wilson absorbed the information, “The connection saved us.”

Peering into the maw of the oven window, disbelief returned to the voice, “What did you cremate? Some kind of animal sacrifice? Puppies?”

“Sheep. One-and-a-half inch thick fatty lamb chops. Guaranteed to catch on fire under a hot broiler. You can thank Stacy for the inspiration. She almost burned down my apartment a couple of times when she was in a domestic mood. That’s when I last painted the walls. For good measure, I added smoke chips to the chops, and placed two sticks of butter in the microwave to cause a 100% pure grease fire.

“That’s the reason I asked you how much blood you drank in a minute, and if you could regulate your drinking. I calculated that the fire would stop you in seven minutes. Enough time to perform the caress, and not drain me.”

Wilson waved the cane over the disaster before him, “Damn shame I didn’t own a toaster oven and a George Foreman Grill. You could have burned down the whole damn apartment building.”

He almost did.

While he was relieved Wilson helped to prevent a full-out firestorm, House was ecstatic with what he accomplished in under ten minutes. Lamb chops and burning-down-the-kitchen-vampire-sex was not to be trifled with. Not only did he create havoc where once there was order, but Wilson was moving back to his apartment. Permanently, if he had anything to say about it.

The destruction around him was worthy of a Bruce Willis movie. The stove and microwave were completely destroyed. Most of the cabinets were charred and doors blown off. Shards of glass and porcelain were strewn everywhere. The ceiling was blackened and the walls shadowed with soot. The floors were gouged from chunks of wood.

House stared at the raw scratches ripping through the once gleaming floors. Most were punctuated by lumps of wooden shrapnel that skidded to a stop after scorching and ripping troughs out of the floorboards. House turned as white as if he was embraced.

“What’s wrong House? Are you alright?”

“You could have been killed.”

“You were in more danger than me. I couldn’t leave you to fight the fire alone.”

House pointed to the wood shards littered over the floor. “I mean dusted.”

With cane and case in hand, Wilson managed to shrug and dropped his head as if studying his shoes. He repeated softly, “I couldn’t leave you to fight the fire alone.”

The suitcase was tugged out of Wilson’s hand as he heard House’s gruff voice, “Zehava was wrong.”

Wilson looked up and knitted his eyebrows, “Huh?”

“You have a helluva set of balls on you, Wilson.” House’s eyes sparkled, as he leered, “I found that out two times tonight.”

Before he knew what was happening, the case returned to the owner. Wilson's face lit up with a half-smile, "I can say the same about you."

* * *

House was sitting on his sofa, checking his TiVo recordings while he waited for Cuddy’s message to click on.

“Cuddy. Hey, Cuddy pick up! I have good news.”

The message broke off, and a sleepy but distinctively cranky voice came on the line, “House, it’s two o’clock in the morning. Can’t it wait?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.”

“What is? And, make it brief.”

“Wilson’s apartment caught fire.”

“Dear God! Is Wilso…?”

“Wilson’s fine. He twisted his knee as he lifted a fire extinguisher. You know what a wimp he is. Luckily, I came along when I did and helped him put out a kitchen fire. There was a lot of smoke damage, so he moved in with me.”  
_  
'Yes, because nothing says love like burning down your best friend’s kitchen…Wait, did you just call me a--WIMP?!'_ House batted at the invisible voice. Wilson was in the bedroom eavesdropping on his conversation via their connection.

“But I wanted to call to give you the really great news. Wilson wants to come back to work. Is his old job still available?”

“Of course it is. He only gave one-week notice. I require two. He’s was never taken off the payroll.” Cuddy delivered her best punch line, “Besides, he is the top candidate. No other oncologists will do consults with you.”

House heard a variety of chuckles and snorts circling in his head.

Cuddy continued, “So the two of you patched things up? You’re friends again?”

“You could say that, but we agreed we need a week off for additional coupling, uh, I mean additional couples counseling, and for Wilson’s leg to heal.”  
_  
'Oh, Houshe? Hou--she?' _Wilson's singsong and "lishp" was signaling his restlessness and hunger.

“Fine, fine. Whatever it takes. Just see that you keep your squabbles to a minimum when you’re in the hospital. The two of you disrupted the state of New Jersey and half of Pennsylvania.

“Oh, and make sure Wilson ices that knee. He’s the only one who can keep you out of trouble, and I want him to stick by your side and track your every move.” House took advantage of Cuddy stopping for a breath and rolled his eyes before she continued, “I’m getting off the phone now, and going back to bed. So should you.” There was a click and the line went dead.

House couldn’t disagree with her last words of advice. It was the best she’d given him since she became director.

_'Houshe? This is your Mashter speaking. Come to me!'_

Shutting the power on the remote, House decided to try the connection from his end, _Yesh, Mashter. May I lick your ‘schweaty’ balls?_

He heard a laugh echoing out of the bedroom as he executed a neat little samba step back down the hall.

* * *

They were looking at each other under the covers. Wilson’s eyes shed an eerie blue-white light.

This night was the first where passion mingled with free will. Both wanted to baptize the occasion. Because one of them rejected champagne and decried holy water, they agreed that simple words would do.

“Blood brothers, Wilson.”  
“Blood brothers, House.”

It was their solemn oath to each other.

* * *

Many years later, and after countless misadventures, the vow underwent a metamorphosis.

Because their relationship was forged in fire and strengthened by blood, the Master finally bowed to the servant’s wishes.

Determined blue eyes filled with trust as House tilted his head away from dark brown eyes splashing the air with gold, and without any hesitation he encouraged, “Blood brothers, Wilson.”

One arm embraced his waist as a cool hand wiped away tears that fell upon his neck. He smiled as the voice of the vampire cracked before the fangs locked onto his throbbing pulse.

“Blood brothers forever, House.”

.

.

_The end_ _…_ _but, not for an eternity._

**Author's Note:**

> The Blood Brothers 'Verse is an ongoing series of one-shots not always produced along a straight timeline or consistent in style and length. As of 2/26/10 there are eight stories. Here they are in chronological order:
> 
> Blood Brothers  
> "A Doctor, a Gypsy, and a Vampire Walked Into a Bar..."   
> The World's Worst Vampire   
> In the Sun's Shadow   
> Possessive and Possessed   
> Interlude with a Vampire   
> Deaductive Reasoning   
> Tear Asunder
> 
> _More to come..._


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